Bill Pronzini - Mourners

The thing was in my coat pocket, but it had one of those chirpy rings that seem overloud even when muffled. It startled both of us; worse, it changed Kerry’s mind, closed her off again. In the time it took for a second loud chirp, the muscles in her face retightened and her attention shifted back to the city lights.

“You’d better answer that,” she said.

“It’s probably Jake Runyon, he’ll call back. Kerry-”

“I think I’ll have another glass of wine,” she said, and got abruptly to her feet and walked out of the room. I knew that walk, the stubborn set of her head and shoulders. No matter what I said or did, I would not get anything more out of her until she was good and ready to give it to me.

JAKE RUNYON

The key was in the Lindens’ mailbox, attached by a chain and hook to a hunk of varnished driftwood. Justine Linden’s doing, probably. Afraid of it being lost, or maybe the driftwood was a feeble attempt to annoy him. He wasn’t annoyed; there were too many large concerns for him to be bothered by the pettiness in people.

He came down off the front stoop, went around onto the path at the side. The key opened the gate lock as well. There were lights showing at the front of the house, but none back here. All the windows looked to be blinded or draped. Throbbing music, something jazzy with heavy emphasis on saxophone and trumpet, came from inside-loud out here, which meant it must be deafening inside. They didn’t want to know if and when he came prowling around. The old, false credo: what you don’t know can’t hurt you.

The outbuilding was dark except for a reflected gleam where moonlight touched window glass. Runyon crossed the patch of damp grass to the entrance. The key let him into shadows and silence, and the faint musty smell of a place that hadn’t been aired out in some time. He shut the door behind him before he felt around for a wall switch.

The switch operated a pair of lamps set well apart from each other, both with low-wattage bulbs which allowed his eyes to adjust immediately to the light. One big room, with a fake knotty pine partition that separated a third of it into a bedroom area, and a closed door at that end that would lead to the bathroom. The other two-thirds was a combination living room and kitchenette, no separation between them. Single-beam ceiling covered with white acoustical tile, walls paneled in more fake knotty pine. Pretty rudimentary. Justine Linden and her brother must not have thought much of their mother. Either that, or they’d built the unit on the cheap out of necessity or parsimony.

Carpeted floor, threadbare in places. Not much in the way of furnishings: sofa, Naugahyde chair, coffee table, end table, TV and VCR on a rolling stand, day bed, dresser, two-burner stove top, tiny refrigerator, stainless-steel sink set into a narrow Formica countertop. No visible phone. Light film of dust on the furniture, and that musty smell: Troxell hadn’t bothered to clean the place. But he hadn’t messed it up any, either. There was nothing on any of the tables or countertop. The only evidence of his occupation were two medium-sized cardboard boxes on the floor next to the couch, a tall pile of newspapers beside the coffee table, and a pair of video cassettes on top of the VCR.

Runyon went around the partition into the bedroom area. The day bed was unmade, no sheets or blankets anywhere. A tiny closet contained dust bunnies and empty hangers. The dresser drawers were empty. Nothing in the bathroom except a bar of soap on a tray that hadn’t been used in so long it had turned stone-hard and developed cracks. He crossed to the other end and opened the refrigerator. Empty. Under the sink was a wastebasket; nothing in there, either.

One of the videos was a slasher film called Bloodbath, the usual crap about a psychotic slaughtering young women. The other was a graphic reality thing in a plain box with a typed title- True Terror: The Most Horrifying Deaths Ever Captured on Film. Touching it made Runyon want to go wash his hands.

He moved over to the cartons. The largest one contained some twenty books, hardcovers and paperbacks both, some with library markings, some new. Serial killer novels. Accounts of high-profile true-crime cases, all involving violent homicide. A sociological study titled The Effects of Violence in American Society, another on the causes and consequences of domestic abuse called Look What You Made Me Do. Abnormal psychology texts: The Killing Mind, Why Did They Kill? The Psychopathology of Rape, Monsters in Disguise: An Illustrated History of Serial Killers.

He repacked the books in the order he’d found them, opened the second carton. Manila file folders, more than a dozen of them, each with a woman’s name printed on the front with a black felt-tip pen. One of the names was Erin Dumont; he recognized three of the others as violent-crime victims whose funerals Troxell had attended. All the names, he found, belonged to victims of either random or domestic violence. Each folder contained a sheaf of newspaper clippings detailing the circumstances of the crime, follow-up news and feature stories, resolution if any; and receipts for floral and memorial offerings. There were four times the number of receipts in the Dumont folder as in any of the others-for flowers sent once or twice weekly, the marble headstone, an annual upkeep payment on her grave. That was all. No notations in Troxell’s hand, no additional contents of any kind.

Two other items in the box. One was a thick bunch of nonreligious Hallmark cards bound together by a rubber band. All new and of more or less the same design, with simple messages: deepest sympathy, heartfelt condolences. Ready to be signed with something anonymous like “A Friend” and sent to victims’ families with or without floral offerings.

The final item in the box was the most interesting of the lot. Pad of ruled yellow foolscap, new, with none of the sheets having been torn off. Five pages had writing on them, all of it in Troxell’s crabbed hand. The top sheet had been done with a ballpoint, the penmanship good and the rows orderly until the last few sentences; those sentences sprawled and had been written with enough pressure to tear the paper in a few places. Rough draft of a letter that had never been sent:

To the S.F. Police Department Three nights ago, at approximately 7 p.m., I was at Lloyd Lake in Golden Gate Park. I stop there sometimes on my way home from work, sit at Portals of the Past and watch the ducks, it’s a quiet place to unwind.

I was returning to my car when I noticed a man and a woman talking alongside a car parked across the road from mine. There was no one else in the vicinity. The man was holding the door open. The woman hesitated as if she was reluctant to get inside, then relented. The man got in after her. I don’t believe either of them noticed me.

He didn’t start the car or put on the lights. As I was buckling my seat belt, I saw them talking and the woman began to laugh. It seemed to make him angry. He said something to her and she stopped laughing. She tried to get out of the car. He grabbed her, dragged her back. I think he might have hit her then. No, I’m sure he did, he punched her in the face, the dome light was on and I saw her head bounce off the door glass and her body slump down on the seat. He pulled the door shut. He started the car and drove away.

I could have followed them but I didn’t.

I sat there a while longer and then I drove home.

I didn’t do anything.

It was dark and I didn’t get a clear look at the woman but she was young and she was wearing a light-colored jogging suit. I think she might be the woman who was raped and murdered that night.

I can’t identify the man, I didn’t get a clear look at him.

I can’t identify the make or model of the car.